Heaven on Earth
by Nicole Newell
Summary: Written in a semi-AU world, a human Castiel is beginning to come to grips with his new-found humanity. However, his world is about to get much more complicated and confusing when he meets a young woman who seems to know a thing or two about angels... This story is written in the second-person, and will follow a slowly blooming relationship between "you" and Castiel.


_Warning: the following series will contain references to a character's past self-harm, their depression, and another character's schizophrenia. If any of these topics make you uncomfortable, you may not want to continue to read this work. "You" are a consenting adult, and of legal age to drink alcoholic beverages. Thank you for reading._

* * *

The scent of coffee beans permeated the air of the sparsely populated café, a scent that you barely even noticed anymore. Your cousin, Linda had opened the café two years ago, luring you back home to Beatrice, Nebraska. But with Heavenly Café,being a two man – well, woman – crew, it wasn't glamorous work. You were a baker, barista, waiter, janitor, and frankly, tired of running yourself ragged.

As soon as you graduated high school you left for a culinary academy, with dreams of living in a chic apartment in New York or some big ritzy city, the head chef in a five star restaurant.

Unfortunately, life has a way of biting dreamers in the ass.

No, you were broke and clueless. Money makes the world go round, and you had none. You wandered, let the wind blow you around for years, before making a reluctant homecoming.

But moving back home was a good thing, Mom needed you here. She was the only one who saw the scars on your wrists, faint but a constant reminder. Whoever said it was only angsty, attention-whoring teens who self-harmed was a complete and total fool, they had never felt the frigid cold of depression, didn't know how warm and familiar a blade could become. They didn't know the rush, that everyone else like you also felt as blood dribbled down your wrist from a neat clean cut; but they also didn't know the guilt and regret the next day, once the high subsided.

"Hey," Linda said, tapping your forehead, "mission control wants to know if you're returning to Earth, over," she said mimicking a static filled voice you would hear over a walkie-talkie.

"Good morning to you, too," you grumble, rubbing your temples, as if you were massaging away the bad memories.

"You're late. Seriously, Miss Chef Extraordinaire, I can't make any of your recipes, and we need an extra batch of cinnamon rolls," she said, steering you toward the kitchen.

While no expense was spared on Linda's fancy espresso and mocha machines and all her various coffee bean blends, you were stuck with an old, temperamental, beat up oven that Linda had bought second hand. Linda swore up and down when she was sure you wouldn't bolt and leave town, that she'd get nicer appliances for you.

So far that hadn't happened.

Linda was a perpetually happy person, who loved rumor and gossip, which she considered an art. She was slender, and still, the childhood nickname of Stick, stuck. She was enviously thin, even though it was a well-documented fact that she survived on junk food and whatever she could convince you to make. Her black hair was pulled back into a pony tail, bobbing wildly as she zipped about the café. Some people commented that you and Linda looked quite a bit alike, while others said the opposite.

Not that any of that mattered as more people started pouring in, looking for their morning caffeine fix.

The next hour went by in a rush of piping hot beverages and fruit danishes. Finally, the pre-work rush had subsided, and things had quieted down. You decided to tidy up, wiping the tables clean and dusting the art work on the walls.

All the art was your Mom's. You had always found it ironic that her favorite thing to draw were angels, since she was firmly atheist. But that's what she drew, hundreds and hundreds of angels.

People often commented on the drawings, on how lovely they were. Honestly, they didn't know the half of it; she also drew some… dark things. She drew monsters too, some gangly and pale, feasting on human corpses, others that were slowly peeling their skin off, revealing something… wrong underneath, deformed, and strange, yet clearly humanoid. But that wasn't what had scared you the most as a child.

No, the demons you found far more disturbing. They looked like people, normal people, a little girl with white eyes, a man with eyes of yellow, and a plethora of others with black and red eyes.

Yes, some things you didn't hang on the walls.

Last time you had visited Mom she handed you a sketch book full of drawings, of angels with broken, bloodied and frayed wings. "They've fallen," was all she said.

Perhaps it was a good thing Mom had been admitted to the psychiatric ward for her schizophrenia.

Finally you were content with the cleanliness of the little café. Linda had carefully picked out every single element of the café, except for the art, which was left to you. The business had charming, warm, and slightly rustic feel, with a color palette of light browns and greens. The whole front was glass, letting plenty of sunlight filter in, even at the bar that you and Linda worked behind. You absentmindedly wiped down the granite countertop, wondering how much the fine slab of granite had cost, not noticing the man who had quietly, and almost wearily, entered.

* * *

_Castiel decided he did have a sense of humor, or at least a proper grasp of irony. He could already hear Dean and Sam's cajoling if they knew he spent a fair chunk of his mornings at the aptly named Heavenly Café._

_Not that it mattered. Good coffee?_

_Now that matters._

* * *

"There he is again," Linda commented, in the hushed tones you both converse with when costumers were present.

"What?" You question not looking up from the sandwiches you were preparing for the lunch crowd.

"That guy."

"Wow, that's specific," you say dryly, turning your focus back to your sandwich making.

"Hi, welcome to Heavenly Café, what can I get you this fine afternoon?" Linda chirped, in her sugary sweet, happy way.

"Black coffee, please," you hear someone say, instantly recognizing the voice. _Oh, that guy, _you think, turning your head to glance over at the register. The owner of the gravelly, yet soft-spoken voice was carefully counting out change for the dollar fifty cup of dark roast.

"It'll be out in just a second," Linda said cheerily, before turning around and frowning at the empty dark roast container.

"That would be your fault," you said, before turning back to you work. Well, maybe not right back to work. You glance up and see 'that guy' sitting in the same spot he's always sat at for the last two weeks, under a sketch of a red-haired, lithe angel Mom had drawn and named Anna.

"That guy gives me the creeps," Linda whispers. You roll your eyes, preparing for the typical Linda-style gossip. "What, you don't agree?"

"No, not really, you think everyone is creepy if they're the only one here, and you'll never know _everyone _who walks through the door," you say, slightly exasperated.

"Come on, I've asked around, no one knows who he is either. And what about those two dudes, you know, in that old classic car? Come through about every other week?" You give a slow, mute nod, though your cousin has already continued with her story. "Mr. Robinson swears they used different names than usual the other day," Linda said, watching the coffee slowly drip into the pot.

"Mr. Robinson is old and sniffs gas fumes," you say. "Everyone knows he's practically senile." It was true, he was ancient when you were a kid and your parents let you run into the little convenience store for some candy or soda while they paid for their tank of gas.

"That's not the point, the point is that they hang out with creepy-stranger man, over there," she said, pouring a fresh cup of piping hot coffee for the mystery costumer.

"Dare I ask what your theory is?"

"Witness protection program," Linda said assuredly, causing you to grin.

"Yeah, Stick, I'm sure that's what it is," you say with a chuckle. "Give me that," you ordered, reaching out for the large coffee.

"Why?" Linda asked quizzically.

"I'm taking my lunch break," you curtly reply, snatching the coffee and scooping up two of the carefully wrapped turkey and cheddar sandwiches.

_Time to meet Mr. Mysterious, _you think to yourself, walking towards the café's lone occupant. He was facing away from you, but as you walked over a slight turn of the head hinted he heard your approach. It was subtle, almost like the way a cat flicks its ears towards you when you enter a room.

"Mind if I sit?" you ask, feeling strangely invasive. He turned his head to look at you, blue eyes searching yours quizzically. You bite the inside of your cheek slightly, feeling awkward. "Here's your coffee," you say, handing it to Mr. Mysterious, who gingerly takes it and sets it down on the table. Even those simple motions are graceful and elegant, exotic in some strange, unexplainable way.

"Thank you," he replies solemnly, as if he really was truly grateful for such a small deed. He averted his eyes, looking at the sketch on the wall. "These are lovely drawings. May I ask who drew them?" he questions, gaze turning back to you.

You smile a little. It always makes you happy when your mother's artwork is complimented. "My mother drew all of them, she's quite the artist," you respond, slightly tongue-tied, which was curious. Part of your job was to make small talk, with everyone and anyone, but this was… different. He was different. "I'm on break, do you mind if I sit and chat?"

"What?" He says, sounding genuinely surprised.

"You just always sit by yourself, and I... well, I thought you might like some company," you answer, slightly embarrassed.

"Oh." He almost looked like a puppy who had just been kicked, examining the tiles beneath his feet. "I would rather enjoy the company, actually," he announced, slightly louder than before, glancing at you almost hopefully.

You smile as you settle into the seat opposite of Mr. Mysterious, setting your coffee and the two sandwiches down in front of you. The sunlight filtering through the glass behind you warms your back in a comfortable, soothing way. Gingerly, you one of the sandwiches towards the middle of the table. "Thought you might want one," you say cheerfully.

"But I don't have the money —"

"Don't worry about it. It's on the house," you reply, ignoring Linda in the background and her incredulous face. "It's only turkey and cheese, sorry."

"Why are you apologizing? It's kind of you to even provide me with sustenance and not expect monetary payment," he says replies. "Money is so confusing. I never used to have to worry about such matters," he adds, looking wistful.

"I know what you mean," you reply, with an empathetic nod, trying to maintain conversation, though you really didn't have a clue what it was like to not worry about money. It always seemed like a looming problem, even in your childhood. "So, you new to town? How are you liking this little corner of hell?" you spiel, before mentally chiding yourself. _What the hell is wrong with you? You make it sound like this is some terrible place to live!_

"Trust me, this is much nicer than any parts of hell," he affirms, with… a smile? No. Not quite. A slight quirk of the lip didn't constitute a smile.

"I never caught your name, by the way," you say, beginning your interrogation.

* * *

_Castiel's brow furrowed. What name should he use? Clarence? Meg used to call him that._

_Thinking of Meg stirred up unwanted emotions, and Castiel decided to simply be truthful. He could never keep track of fake names and identities that Dean and Sam constructed for him anyways._

* * *

"Castiel," he divulges, after a moment. "What's yours?" He tacked on, looking at you expectantly. He smiled at your reply. Yes, that was a smile. Shy, self-conscious, but a smile nevertheless. "That's a beautiful name," he remarks, causing you to blush a little.

"Please, thousands of people have that name, but I've never met anyone with your name," you rebut, trying to keep the conversation light and playful.

"It's more of a curse than a blessing," he says softly, his striking blue eyes misting over with the memories of yesterday.

You are about to respond, when your phone jumps to life, violently vibrating and "Call Me Maybe" blaring, as you still haven't figured out how to change it after Linda hijacked your phone. "Sorry, can I just grab this quick?" He gave a silent nod, taking a sip of his coffee and unwrapping the sandwich.

You scowled as you saw Linda had texted you, even though you knew from the obnoxious ringtone. _So, what's his name? _

_Castiel, _you text back, about to put your phone back in your pocket after muting it, when it once more jumped to life, screen alight with Linda's new text:

_That's a weird ass name. Witness protection program, I'm telling you._

You heave a sigh, irritated at your cousin, glaring at her from across the room. "Is everything alright?"

You twitch slightly at the unexpected interjection of Mr. Mysterious — no, Castiel. "Yeah, sorry. Wrong number," you say with a smile, before glaring at Linda, innocently polishing the counter.

Your glare did not go unnoticed by him, as he turned around slightly to look at Linda, who offered a nauseatingly sweet smile back. "I get the impression she dislikes me," he declares, turning back to you.

"Oh, Linda? She loves everyone, trust me," you blurt out quickly, silently cursing your blasted cousin.

"No, I don't think she does, I think she pretends to though," he replies, making you smile.

"What can I say, it's her job," you say with a shrug. "She'll warm up to you, trust me. We just don't see many new faces is all."

"Understandable, I suppose someone of unknown origins would make me uneasy as well," he said, taking another bite out of the sandwich. He made it seem like it was the best thing he had ever tasted, appreciating every flavor and texture. He examined the sketch of Anna again. "She looks like someone I used to know," he said, staring intently at the drawing.

"I always thought they looked too human," you reply, looking at the sketch. You mom occasionally painted her drawings, if she was fond of them. Most of them she used colored pencils or pastels to gently bring color into the otherwise monotone piece. This one was atypical of her style, with the angel's clothing, skin, and hair all lightly colored and shaded, and the eyes extremely detailed, vibrant and unbelievably lifelike. Usually, blood splatter was also equally realistic and bright, but this angel was surprisingly free of any crimson stains.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, I don't know. It seems strange that they're wearing normal clothes, you know? Aren't angels supposed to wear robes and play harps and stuff?" You reply with a small giggle.

A small smile plays across his lips. "I suppose so," he says, standing slowly. "Thank you very much for your generosity and company."

"No problem, it was nice talking to you, hopefully we can chat again soon," you assert with a warm, genuine smile. How long has it been since you legitimately smiled at a customer, not out of habit, but simply because it felt right? "See you tomorrow?"

He was silent a moment, before saying "Only if I buy lunch."

"Deal," you say grinning, walking behind the counter, returning to your barista duties, waving as he walked out of the front watched him walk down the sidewalk through the glass front until he disappeared from sight. Another costumer walked in, followed by another, before the establishment was empty again.

"Oh. My. God. You so totally like him!" Linda squealed loudly, as soon as you and her were the only souls inside.

Rolling your eyes, you opt to ignore her as she rambles on. "I mean, he is hot in a mysterious sort of way, sort of ruggedly handsome. He looks smart too, is he smart?"

"Who are you talking about?" you question, playing coy.

"Oh, please. Like you don't know. You were practically drooling over him!"

"I was not!" you retort, offended by her exaggeration. "Unlike you, I can control myself."

"So, back to my question," Linda continues, either completely oblivious to your jab at her or simply ignoring you, "Is he smart?"

"Why don't you talk to him," you snap, irritated at Linda's need to gossip.

"Come on, I couldn't do that. You practically have called dibs!"

"What? I have not."

"Have to."

"Have not."

"Have to!"

"I have not, damn it," you snap, snapping the dishtowel you have in hand, aiming for her left arm but missing.

"Have to," Linda said, stomping her foot. Opening your mouth to reply, Linda quickly blurts "Have to, too infinity and beyond, I win."

"You're such a child," you say, polishing mugs, slightly stained with residue from coffee.

To be honest with yourself though, you couldn't wait to see Castiel again tomorrow.


End file.
